Hagrid's face darkens, his beetle-black eyes narrowing at Vernon like storm clouds rolling in. "I told yeh," he rumbles, his voice low and dangerous, "never call him that again."
Vernon opens his mouth to protest, but Hagrid cuts him off with a sharp gesture of his massive hand. Harry's voice falters mid-sentence, his explanation about snakes choking into silence. The tension in the room is thick, the kind of silence that feels like it's holding its breath.
Then, very slowly, Hagrid crouches down again, this time lowering himself as much as his massive frame will allow. He's careful, like he's approaching a wounded animal, and Harry presses harder into the wall behind him, as if trying to merge with the rough wooden planks.
"Listen, Harry," Hagrid says softly, his voice rumbling like distant thunder, "I know this is a lot to take in. I know it's not easy, an' I reckon it's a bit scary too, but yeh've got to trust me here." He pauses, waiting, but Harry doesn't respond. "Yer a wizard, Harry. An' a right good one, I'd bet, once yeh've had some trainin'."
Harry stares at him blankly, his mind buzzing with static. Wizard. The word feels too big, too strange, too impossible. He wants to say no, to correct Hagrid, to insist he's just Harry, but the words don't come. He feels Nighttime shifting uneasily.
"Wizard?" he whispers at last, his voice barely audible.
Hagrid nods firmly. "Aye. And yer goin' ter Hogwarts School o' Witchcraft an' Wizardry this September. Got yer letter right here, I do." He pulls a slightly crumpled envelope from one of his many coat pockets and holds it out toward Harry.
It's the letter. His letter, thick and heavy with emerald green ink and the crest that has a snake on it. He stares at the letter, then at Hagrid and then his eyes dart very quickly to his frozen uncle wondering what will happen if he reaches out and takes it.
"Well, go on, then," Hagrid says patiently, and Harry hesitantly reaches out and takes the letter from the giant's hand. His eyes flicker to his uncle again, but Vernon trembling with rage but frozen.
Harry's fingers twitch, but he doesn't move. He looks from the envelope to Hagrid's face and back again, his mind racing. Wizards aren't real. Magic isn't real. The Dursleys said it wasn't real, the Rules say it isn't and Harry doesn't argue with the Rules. They said it was bad bad bad broken freak and there is something cracking inside him because this is what his letter was?
Harry shakes his head, his body trembling. "No," he says, his voice cracking. "No, I can't—I'm not—"
"It's okay," Hagrid says quickly, his tone soothing. "It's okay, Harry. Yeh don't have ter do anything right now. Jus' read the letter, tha's all. Jus' read it."
Harry hesitates, clutching the letter as though it might burn him. He doesn't open it, doesn't even loosen his grip. The parchment crinkles under his fingers, but he can't bring himself to look inside. His chest feels too tight, his breaths coming too quickly. The world is closing in 1234567891012345—
"I am not a wizard," he tells Hagrid, but it sounds like he's trying to convince himself.
Hagrid frowns, his thick brows knitting together. "Course yeh are," he says firmly. "An' if yeh need proof, well—haven't strange things ever happened when yeh were upset or scared? Things yeh couldn't explain?"
Harry freezes. His thoughts trip over themselves, tumbling into memories he's tried not to think about for years because they were bad bad bad. The night he'd ended up on the roof of the shed, far away from the shouting and slamming doors, even though he hadn't climbed anything. Lightbulbs shattering above the dinner table, sharp sparks raining down after Vernon's voice had grown too loud. The hallway light glowing all night during a storm, no matter how many times Uncle Vernon switched it off. Bad broken freak freak freak and he had made himself forget but now, with Hagrid crouched in front of him, those moments don't feel so distant anymore. They feel undeniable. They feel real.
And Nighttime. Snakes. For the first time, Harry wonders if this is why only he can understand them.
Magic.
And if magic is what lets him speak to snakes, if magic is what allows him to have his only friend—well. Harry decides it can't be bad.
Hagrid's eyes soften as he watches Harry's expression shift, the tension in his small frame easing ever so slightly. "Aye," Hagrid says gently, as if sensing the fragile thread of acceptance forming in Harry's mind. "It ain't bad, Harry. Never let anyone tell yeh otherwise. Magic's in yeh—always has been. It's what makes yeh… well, you."
"What happens if I say no?" Harry asks finally, very stiffly.
Hagrid looks surprised at the question, then thoughtful. "Well," he begins slowly, "I s'pose that'd be up ter you. No one'll force yeh, Harry. But…" He hesitates, scratching his beard. "There's a whole world out there waitin' fer yeh. A place where yeh don't have ter hide who yeh are. Where yeh can learn about magic and use it—properly, I mean. Hogwarts'll teach yeh all that."
Harry tilts his head, considering this.
"Can they talk to snakes?"
Hagrid starts. "Talk ter— Wha'r yeh talkin' about, Harry?"
"Snakes."
The giant blinks. "Yeah, I got tha… But—yeh can talk to em, Harry?"
Harry nods. "Yes. Is this magic?"
Hagrid scratches his beard again. Harry wonders if there is a mouse in it. Maybe Nighttime will eat it for him. "Yeah, it is. But it's rare magic, that is, hasn't been seen since, well…" He trails off, looking quite uneasy.
He says I can talk to you because of magic, Harry tells Nighttime. He says I am a 'wizard.'
Oh, he hisses back grumpily, seeming quite uninterested. How nice for you. Now let's go home.
Hagrid watches them with a horrified fascination. "Blimey," he murmurs. "Well, Harry, I s'pose yer a parseltongue, then. Rare, like I said. Usually associated with Dark wizards, that gift is…"
Harry stares at his chest.
"Not sayin' that's what yeh are!" Hagrid adds hastily. "Not a bit of it, Harry. Jus'… some folks'll hear about it and, well, they'll jump ter conclusions. But you don't need ter worry about that, not one bit."
"Dark wizards?"
Hagrid shifts uncomfortably, his massive hands fumbling to straighten the folds of his coat. "Well, er, Dark magic's the kind of magic folks use fer harmin' others. Bad stuff, that is. But being able ter talk to snakes—it don't make yeh bad, Harry. It's just… uncommon. People get funny ideas about it, tha's all." He claps his hands together. "Er, where was I? Ah, righ'. Yer letter. Why don't ya open it, Harry?"
Harry looks down at the letter again, his grip tightening around it. His mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, too many to untangle, too many to process. Hagrid's words blur, his gentle tone offering comfort, but Harry's heart is a stone in his chest. He doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what to think.
The letter feels so heavy now, heavier than it ever did before. It isn't just a letter—it's everything that's been forced onto him. Everything that makes him feel small and strange and wrong. But at the same time, it's everything that might make him more than he's ever been.
His fingers shake as he pulls at the seal. The wax breaks with a faint crack, and for a moment, Harry holds his breath, the air thick with expectation.
Inside, there's more paper—thicker, finer than any letter he's seen before. The words are clear, green ink against a cream background. But all Harry can see is the line that repeats over and over in his mind:
Yer a wizard, Harry.
The weight of the truth presses down on him again. A wizard. And he doesn't know how to be one. He doesn't know how to be anything except what the Dursleys have told him he is. A freak. Broken.
And suddenly, his eyes blur. He can't go any further.
"I'm not normal," Harry tells the giant. "Broken. See?" He points to the scar on his forehead. "When my parents got drunk and died in the car crash I hit my head and I'm cracked there and it messed something up in my brain I'm a freak fractured brokenbrokenbroken—"
"DURSLEY!" Hagrid booms suddenly and Harry lets out a high wail, pressing his hands over his ears. Dudley looks like he's going to pass out. Vernon's face is an unhealthy purple. "YOU DARE—YOU TOLD HIM THAT—" He pants furiously. "LILY AN' JAMES DEAD IN A CAR CRASH AN' THAT SCAR A HIS—YOU SAID THAT—"
Vernon tries to speak, his voice wavering with fear, but Hagrid doesn't give him a chance. The giant's rage fills the room like a storm, and even Dudley shrinks back, his wide eyes glued to the massive figure standing between them and the Dursleys' broken little world.
"You filthy liar!" Hagrid's voice roars. "That's not the story, and you know it! Lily and James Potter weren't drunk, and they sure as hell didn't die in no car crash! You tell Harry what really happened, or I swear, I'll—"
Hagrid's fists clench so tightly that the veins in his arms stand out, and Harry feels a tremor run through his bones, not from fear, but from something else. Something... warm. Like when he met the snake in the bushes, or when he talks to Nighttime. For the first time in his life, someone is standing up for him. Someone is furious for him—not at him, for him, and there is such a difference between the two that for a moment Harry can't breathe.
Vernon opens his mouth, looking like he's about to sputter some weak excuse, but before he can get a word out, Hagrid continues. "Don't you dare tell him his parents weren't special. They were heroes. They were kind, and they loved him more than anything! An' they didn't die in no damn car crash!"
The room goes deathly silent, save for Hagrid's labored breathing. Harry watches the scene unfold, the words swirling in his mind. Heroes. His parents. Love.
Hagrid turns slowly to Harry, his expression softening, his eyes full of pity and understanding. "Yeh deserve ter know, Harry. Yeh've got the right to know who yer parents were." He exhales, the words thick in his throat. "They were murdered by a dark wizard, Harry. One o' the darkest wizards ever to live. His name was—" He shudders, then throws a look of deepest disgust toward the Dursleys and bites out, "His name was Voldemort, but don't make me say it again, yeh hear me?"
Harry clenches and unclenches his fingers in the corner.
"Voldemort was the last known parseltongue, up until you. He killed yer mum an' dad when you were just a baby," Hagrid continues gently. "But he couldn't kill you. He tried, but he couldn't. An' that's why yer here, Harry. Tha's why yeh got that scar. Yer not broken, yeh hear me? Tha' scar of yers—tha's a symbol of hope for the whole wizarding world. You survived wha' no one else could."
Harry's head spins. That—that can't be right. It can't. For the first time, he tries to remember how he got the scar. He searches his mind for a crash, an explosion of glass and metal and pain but all he finds is a burst of green green light, the same shade of green as his eyes and a high, cold laugh that makes him shudder.
"But—" he says finally. "But if the crash didn't break me, what did?"
Hagrid considers him. "Harry, listen to me," he says after a moment. "Yer a bit strange, I'll give yeh that, but broken? Don' let anyone tell yeh that, ever, yeh hear me?"
At this, he gives the Dursleys the nastiest look yet.
"Now open yer letter."
Almost automatically, Harry does.
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. The term begins on 1st September. We await your owl by no later than 31st July.
He looks up. "I've never been to school," he says after a moment.
Hagrid looks stunned. "Bu—what?"
From the corner, his aunt finally speaks. "We had to pull him out. He couldn't handle a school environment. I've been… homeschooling him."
She has not been homeschooling him, but that's what she tells the state so that's what she'll tell this man, too. Mostly, Harry reads about snakes while she watches the latest show or spies on the neighbors. It's a win-win.
Hagrid's face twitches in disbelief, his brow furrowing deeper as he processes the Dursleys' claim. "Homeschooling, yeh say?" He glances at Harry, then back at Aunt Petunia, clearly struggling to make sense of what he's hearing. "That's... not what I've been hearin', not by a long shot. No, I reckon that ain't what yer supposed to do with a boy like Harry."
Aunt Petunia stiffens, her jaw set in an unforgiving line. "You have no idea how hard it is with him. You don't know what he's like."
"I know exactly what he's like," Hagrid snaps back, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Yeh don't have ter tell me. I've seen more than enough to know yeh've done him no favors, no kindness at all. Look at 'im!" He gestures at Harry, still huddled against the wall, his face pale and uncertain.
"No!" Petunia cries shrilly. "You haven't been living with this boy for ten years, have you? How DARE you come in and pass your judgment on this family! YOU KNOW NOTHING! We took him in after my bloody freak of a sister went and—and got herself blown up—and we knew he was a—wizard—but no one told us about this! You have no idea!" she finishes in almost a scream, then takes a deep, shaking breath. "But... I suppose you will," she says, a small smile suddenly growing on her thin lips. "You'll see. You take care of him for a year, then come and judge us."
"Petunia?" uncle Vernon says uncertainly. "You don't mean to say that—"
Aunt Petunia barks out a short, hysterical laugh. "They want him, they can have him!" she says. "He can be with the rest of the freaks!"
"P—Petunia! I won't allow it!"
"Well, if he wants ter go, a great Muggle like you won't stop him," growls Hagrid. "Stop Lily an' James Potter's son goin' ter Hogwarts! Yer mad. His name's been down ever since he was born. He's off ter the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world. Seven years there and he won't know himself. He'll be with youngsters of his own sort, fer a change, an' he'll be under the greatest headmaster Hogwarts ever had—Albus Dumbledore!"
His uncle swells. "I'M NOT PAYING FOR—"
"Let him go, Vernon," his aunt laughs loudly, cutting him off, looking quite unhinged. Vernon's face is purpled but filled with confusion. Petunia's voice is a brittle thing, tinged with something Harry can't name. "Let him go. I can't—I can't do it anymore."
Harry watches them and feels so very, very small.
Hagrid grunts. "As though yeh could stop 'im," he grumbles again with great dislike, then turns to Harry. His eyes are gentle and kind. "Well, Harry? Wha'd yeh think?"
Harry thinks about it. He thinks and thinks and the silence drags on and he wants to tell Hagrid about how snakes eat their prey but this decision before him is too big for the words to fit. Harry hates decisions. They paralyze him.
"Harry?" Hagrid prods, and at last, Harry manages a small nod. Yes. Yes. Yes.
A/N: again, please let me know what y'all think! disclaimer: none of this belongs to me, very sadly. some text is copied from the book. if you see anything familiar, it's not mine.